A finer end - Deborah Crombie [100]
“Experiment?” Kincaid supplied helpfully. “But even if that were the case, what could Andrew have thought he’d find at Ms. Todd’s? It might help us if Winnie could remember what she did the day of her accident, or why she was coming to see you.”
“Oh!” Fiona brightened. “When I visited Winnie yesterday, she remembered that she went to the Abbey that morning. But that’s as far as we got, I’m afraid.”
“Jack said you painted the Abbey, the night Winnie was struck,” said Gemma. “Was that unusual? I’d think you’d use Glastonbury scenes as a matter of course.”
“But I don’t choose the things I paint. I suppose I could say they choose me. I just see them, and paint them, and that was the first time I’ve ever painted the Abbey.”
“We saw one of your works in town, last night, beautifully displayed. Allen Galleries—is that your husband’s gallery?”
Nodding, Fiona explained, “Bram’s there today, hanging some new pieces. It’s difficult to change the displays when the gallery’s open.”
“What are they—the creatures you paint?”
“I really don’t know. It’s like the settings—I just paint them. I suppose it’s quite similar to what happens to Jack, with his messages from Edmund.”
“Might we see what you painted the night of Winnie’s accident?” asked Kincaid.
“Of course.”
They followed her down a corridor and into her glasswalled studio. She lifted a canvas from a stack against the wall and set it on an easel. In this painting, the creatures thronged round a human child cupped in a luminous bowl, within the great arch of the Abbey’s ruined transepts. Unlike the work they’d seen in the gallery window, here the child seemed to be the focus of the creatures’ attention, perhaps even their compassion.
“Edmund and Alys’s child?” Kincaid murmured.
“Edmund’s?”
Before Kincaid could explain, a man’s voice called out, “Darling?”
“In here,” Fiona answered. As her husband entered the room, she said, “Bram, this is Duncan Kincaid, Jack Montfort’s cousin, and his friend, Gemma James.”
“And how is Winnie?” Bram Allen asked.
“Jack is bringing her home from hospital today.”
“We’ll pay her a visit then, in a day or two, when she’s had a little time to recuperate.” Allen put his arm round his wife’s shoulders and shepherded her back into the sitting room. “Fiona’s been working too hard,” he told Gemma and Kincaid. “She had strict instructions to stay put in front of the fire this afternoon.”
“I only went out for a walk,” countered Fiona, “and found our guests wandering about in the lane. I promise I haven’t lifted a brush.”
Although Allen was pleasant enough, Kincaid sensed that Fiona’s husband was uneasy, and his interest sharpened. “Mr. Allen, I understand it was you who found Garnet Todd’s body.”
Giving his wife an anxious look, Allen replied, “I’m just glad it wasn’t Fiona. Her experience with Winnie was pretty dreadful—but then you’d know that.”
“Rather an odd coincidence, though, wasn’t it? Mrs. Allen finding Winnie and you discovering Ms. Todd?”
“Winnie was only a few hundred yards from our house, and I walk round the Tor every morning,” Allen said with the air of a man keeping his impatience in check. “Unfortunate, perhaps, but I wouldn’t say odd.”
“Did you recognize Ms. Todd’s van?”
“No. To be honest, I’d had a bit too much coffee.… I thought the van would make a good shield if anyone came along.… I suppose I assumed someone had had a breakdown and left it to be collected later—until I looked inside.”
“Did you recognize Ms. Todd, then?”
Allen paled. “No. I’m afraid I wasn’t … thinking very logically at that point.”
Kincaid remembered that they had found only Garnet Todd’s and Faith’s prints on the exterior of the van. “You didn’t try to get in? To see if she needed help?”
“It was obvious she was past that.” Again, Allen gave his wife a concerned glance. “I came home and rang the police.”
“But you knew Ms. Todd?” pressed Kincaid.
“She was unique … one of Glastonbury’s true eccentrics. The town won’t be the same without her. I—Fiona?”
Fiona Allen stood and moved towards her studio. “I’m sorry.” Feverish spots had